Barley Fever
by ravengal
Summary: They say that alcohol loosens the tongue. Makes you say things you wouldn't, otherwise. When France went out for a drink with Britain one night, he wasn't expecting to find out just how true that statement was. Oh dear... [FrUK]


Author's note: Hey there!

What's this? A proper FrUK fic? Holy gasp!

... I suppose you'll be wondering if this fic takes place in the same universe as my other FrUK fic, History in the Making. Well, maybe, maybe not. You decide! It can easily be read on its own, either way.

I hope you enjoy it!

Reviews create friendship rainbows. Spread the reviews to spread the friendship!

* * *

 **Barley Fever**

It had almost become a tradition by this point. Something would upset Britain, he'd go to France to vent and they'd, somehow, find themselves at the local bar. Why this always happened, France wasn't sure, but he supposed he _was_ Britain's closest neighbour and they _were_ sort of friends... Sort of.

Britain, did, however, have a notoriously bad tolerance for alcohol. It wasn't as if the Brit didn't know this, either. France _knew_ he did. They'd both lived enough centuries to know very well what happened when he drank too much. On days like this, though, it seemed like he couldn't bring himself to care. The less happy he was, the more he wanted to drown his sorrows. Then loudly complain, once his inhibitions had been dulled.

"That bloody git..." Britain slurred, waving his almost empty pint glass around. "No bloody respect at all!" He slammed it on the counter.

"Now, mon ami..." France said gently, "try not to cause a scene, s'il vous plait. You know what 'appened ze last time..."

"But you heard him! You bloody heard him..."

France ran a finger along the rim of his wine glass. "Oui, I did."

Britain raised his voice to a higher pitch. "'This is why I went independent!' Bloody... wanker!"

Grabbing his pint glass, he downed the rest of his ale in a single gulp. When he was finished, he slammed it back on the counter.

"Ooh, look at me with my _Independence_!" He waved his hands around dramatically. "I think I'll celebrate it with a _national holiday_! Just to _rub_ it in Britain's face eeeevery year!" He slapped his hands back on the counter. "Bloody wanker..."

France sighed. "You know, Britain... you've been 'olding zis grudge for a very long time now..."

"Yeah? So what?"

France smiled pleasantly. "Well, maybe it's time to let bygones be bygones?"

Britain glared at him. "... You bloody _what_ , mate?!"

France held up a hand in defence, slightly amused by the faltering accent. "I'm just saying! Don't you want to be brozers again? Like ze old days?"

"That ship sailed a _long_ bloody time ago!"

"It could always come back."

"No!"

"All it would need is a little forgiveness."

" _No_!"

"Just accept zat 'e's enjoying 'is freedom now."

" _Noooo_!" Britain flailed around angrily. "I _won't_ forgive him! I _can't_ forgive him, because he left me! He left me all alone, all because I put a little tax on his tea! And then he threw my bloody tea in the _bloody harbour_! That was a waste of perfectly good teaaaa!"

France glanced around nervously. People were starting to stare and he really didn't want to get the police involved again. "Mon ami..."

Britain glared angrily at him. "And _you_! You were _in_ that bloody war!" He pointed at him. "Don't think I've forgotten, you _bloody backstabbing frog_!" France blinked in response. "You, Spain _and_ Netherlands! You're all traitorous _bastards_!"

After a moment, France huffed and gave a light smirk. "Well, we all 'ad our own reasons for zat..." He shrugged. "Mine was simply to get back at you for ze Seven Years' War."

"You bloody wanker... Any excuse... Any excuse to fight against me!"

"Well, it's not like you're any different."

Britain stared straight at him, grinding his teeth together. After a moment, his eyes started watering. France was taken aback by the sight.

"You bloody wanker!" Britain leaned over on his stool and started smacking France's arm with his fists, though not enough to hurt. "Bloody wanker! Bloody wanker!" He started smacking faster. "Bloody wanker, bloody wanker, bloody wanker, bloody wanker, _bloody wanker_!"

France stared at the bizarre sight.

"Monsieur..." the bartender asked, edging over cautiously, "is everyzing okay over 'ere?"

"Uh, oui! Oui!" France replied, glancing back and forth between him and Britain. The latter seemed to have calmed down now, as he was staring into space while leaning against his arm. "I 'ave it under control."

"... Well, if you say so..." The bartender edged away again.

"... Are you alright now, mon ami?"

"... You know..." Britain said distantly, "I don't really blame you for hating me..."

France blinked. Where on Earth had _that_ comment come from?

"What?"

"I _was_ quite the tyrant back in the day... Looting... plundering... taking away people's land and... freedom..."

France couldn't believe it. Britain was actually showing _remorse_ about all that? That was something that this man just _did not do_.

"Oh, well... I suppose I wasn't much better, in retrospect..."

"America couldn't wait to get away from me..." Britain buried his head into France's arm. "And I started so many fights... tried to take so much land... It's no wonder I have no friends..."

Oh, good lord, this was getting awkward.

"Well, you... you 'ave your _imaginary_ friends! Like... like Flying Chocolate Bunny, or whatever 'is name is."

"It's Flying _Mint_ Bunny, you wanker... and she's a girl..."

"Oh... my mistake..."

"And she's not imaginary... you just can't see her..."

"Oh..."

There was an awkward silence. France tried to think of something to say, while Britain remained glued to his arm.

"... Even the Hundred Years' War was all my fault..."

"Non, non! Not _all_ of it. It takes two to tango, after all."

"... What about Joan of Arc?"

France froze. That name hadn't cropped up between them in so long. So very long. It had almost become an unspoken rule never to mention her name. Ever.

Shaking slightly, he reached for his wine glass. He slowly lifted it to his mouth and threw the rest of the sweet red liquid down his throat. Normally, he wouldn't be so crass with his drink, but he could make an exception, just this once. He slowly put the glass back on the counter.

Suddenly, he felt Britain's grip on his sleeve tighten. After a moment, the fist started to shake.

"I'm so sorry, France... So sorry..." His voice cracked.

France's breath caught in his throat in disbelief. He was... apologising?

"I'm so sorry..."

"Mon ami, what-?"

"I didn't want her to die... I didn't..." There was an awkward pause between them. "I'm so sorry... So... bloody... sorry..."

After a few moments of staring in disbelief, France managed to shake himself out of it. "Non, mon ami..." Holding Britain by the shoulders, he gently hoisted him back into a sitting position. "Don't beat yourself up over ze past..."

"But-"

France shook his head. "Non." He smiled sadly. "Jeanne d'Arc... or Joan of Arc, as you know 'er... was a tragic loss of life zat was... greatly upsetting for ze French, oui..." Britain's eyes crinkled in anguish. "But I never blamed you for zat." Britain's eyes widened. "And I still don't."

"But... but... I..."

France let go of Britain's shoulders. "I know you better zan anyone..." He gave a light smirk. "And, alzough you can be a grand pain in ze derriére, one zing you are _not_ is a murderer."

"But..."

"Was it not your _people's_ decision to 'ave 'er executed?"

"Well, yes... but-!"

"And you did not _want_ 'er to die?"

"No..."

France's smirk melted into a small smile. "Well, zen, don't blame yourself... _I_ never 'ave."

Britain stared at him, open-mouthed, for a long moment. Once the comment sunk in, his face crinkled in remorse. His teeth ground against one another until tears spilled from his eyes.

"Bloody... wanker!"

He threw himself forward and slammed his fists into France's shoulder. "Wanker! Wanker! Bloody... wanker..." He slumped against France's arm.

France stared at him, bewildered. Just how long had Britain been feeling like this? It'd been many centuries since Joan of Arc's execution. Had he been feeling remorse for _this long_? For something that hadn't even been his fault?

He gently stroked Britain's back. "Besides... she is living an 'appy life now... I am sure of it."

"... You think so?"

"Oui, I know so." France paused. "Do you believe in reincarnation?"

"I believe in a lot of bloody things..."

France chuckled. "Of course. Well, I zink she is 'appy now. Living a new life, under a new name."

"... That's good..."

"Oui."

There was another awkward pause. France continued to rub Britain's back.

"... I don't hate you, you know... Not really..."

France stopped his rubbing, his eyes widening. "What?"

Britain nuzzled his face into France's sleeve. "You may be a... surrendering, cheese-eating... wine-guzzling _wanker_ of a... bloody frog... but I don't hate you."

"You don't?"

"No..."

Touched by the comment, France couldn't help but smile warmly. "Merci, mon ami... I don't 'ate you, eizer."

Britain lifted his head and stared at him, eyes wide. "You don't?"

"Non."

Britain stared at him. He held the gaze for the longest moment. France stared back, oddly captivated.

Eventually Britain's hand moved upwards, gripping a higher part of France's arm and hoisting him up to eye level. It took the Frenchman a moment to realise that the Brit's face was getting awfully close.

His eyes widened. Was Britain about to...?

The Brit's face stopped about an inch away from his. Hot breath poured across his nose, smelling strongly of ale. They continued to stare at one another, Britain's gaze oddly distant.

"... Mon ami?"

It wasn't as if France wasn't used to this situation. Oh no. He'd honestly lost count of how many kisses he'd stolen, how many people – men and women alike – he'd woken up to. For _Britain_ , of all people, to be attempting it, though? He must have _really_ been out of it.

"Bloody frog..."

Britain frowned, looking slightly conflicted about what he was doing. His head was starting to sway, though, proving that he wasn't of the right mind anyway.

Normally, France would not have objected to this. Hell, he revelled in romance, whether it was emotional, sensual or sexual. He didn't even mind that half the bar was probably staring at them right now. He'd never been one to care about shame. Hence why he liked to run around naked a lot.

This, however, was a whole other kettle of fish.

"Listen... mon ami..."

"Oh, bugger it."

Britain leaned forward, his lips landing on France's. The Frenchman's eyebrows shot up in shock.

Mon dieu, he was... kissing him. Britain was kissing him. What in the holy hell was going on with the world today?

It wasn't as if he wasn't attracted to the Brit. He _was_ , although he'd have a hard time explaining exactly _why_. However, he'd always thought of him as beyond him. Out of his reach.

He'd been okay with that, though. He could bicker and fight with the man for all eternity, if that was the only way to spend time with him. After all, he was prickly. Foul-mouthed. Anti-social. Anti- _French_. He had caterpillar eyebrows that were never seen un-furrowed. He was the epitome of grouchiness. Yet here he was, kissing him...

All too soon, Britain moved away. He pulled a face as he sat back on his stool.

"Urgh... what the bloody hell am I doing? Stupid frog..." He leaned his arms on the counter and put his head down on them. "Stupid bloody frog..."

France blinked. He wasn't sure his brain was functioning properly anymore.

"I need another drink..." Britain glanced up at him. "Hey, frog, get me another ale."

France blinked again. After a moment, he came back to his senses, chuckling lightly.

"I zink you've 'ad enough, don't _you_?"

Britain frowned. "No, I don't."

France smirked. "You're already kissing me. Any more and you'll want to take me 'ome~"

Britain held his glare for a while, staring straight into France's eyes. It was almost as if he was actually considering it.

... He wasn't, was he?

Eventually, the Brit huffed, turning away. "Alright, fine... bloody frog..." He climbed down off the stool, almost falling over. "Have it _your_ bloody way..."

France watched in amusement as Britain wandered towards the exit, then climbed down off his stool and followed him. He'd need someone to help him get home, after all. Lest he fall asleep on a park bench, or something. Again.

* * *

A few days later, France was hosting a world meeting. As per usual, he was dressed in his finest tailored suit as he awaited the arrival of his guests. As the minutes ticked by, they filed in, one after another, in the expected order. All apart from one. One that usually showed up a lot earlier than this.

He did eventually show his face, although, the moment he walked through the door and locked eyes with the Frenchman, his face turned bright red. Scowling, he immediately looked away and hurried towards his seat.

France smirked. Oh, so he hadn't forgotten, then. He'd been wondering about that...

* * *

It had been a long meeting and, as per usual, they had gotten nowhere. Well, that was to be expected. What _hadn't_ been expected, though, was that Britain had avoided France's gaze all meeting. The other nations had been curious as to why the two of them hadn't started tearing each other's throats out yet. France had merely sniggered quietly to himself in his seat.

When the meeting finally ended, and everyone began filing out of the room, Britain started gathering his papers together in a blind panic. Normally, he'd have them neatly packed away by this point, but it seemed his mind had been elsewhere for a while.

Smirking heavily, France sidled over to the Brit's side.

"Need any 'elp wiz zat, mon ami?" he asked.

Britain jumped, dropping half of his papers. "B-Bloody hell!" he cried. Scowling, he knelt down and began picking them up. "Don't sneak up on me like that! Bloody frog!"

"My apologies."

Britain grumbled to himself. Once he finished picking up his papers, he quickly put them in his briefcase, then stood up straight, looking like his usual haughty self.

"Well, then! I'm off." He began walking away.

"Oh, what? Not even a kiss goodbye~?"

Britain froze mid-step.

France put a finger to his chin. "And I zought you didn't 'ate me~"

Very slowly, Britain turned around. His eyebrows were furrowed in fury, but his face was bright red.

"You... bloody..."

France swayed on the spot tauntingly. "Or do you plan to take all zat back?"

"I... You... We..."

"Ohonhon~!" France strode forwards, his victory earned, as far as he was concerned. "Au revoir!"

He kissed Britain on the forehead. The Brit made a weird strangled noise in response, his blush darkening.

Winking, France skipped past him, out of the room and down the corridor. That grouchy Brit was just too much fun, sometimes. Maybe that was why he liked him. Well, that and he was a lot softer than he liked people to know. As demonstrated only a few days prior.

Immensely pleased with himself, France grinned all the way home.

 **The End**


End file.
